


The Farm Ain't Bought

by kashinoha



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Marvel women are bamfs, Phil's sense of humor, Post CATWS, Steve has had enough, post 1x22
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:28:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/pseuds/kashinoha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dead are still running this country. It’s kind of annoying.</p><p>All characters © Marvel</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Farm Ain't Bought

 

**The Farm Ain't Bought**

 

When Pepper Potts looked in the mirror and saw two reflections staring back at her, she did not scream. Instead, she added a dab of concealer to a small blemish on her chin, rubbed it in, and snapped the cap shut.

“Good morning, Natasha,” she said.

The figure in the doorway smoothed out a skirt-suit that, in the dim bathroom light, looked as sleek and black as obsidian under moonlight. To the casual observer, Natasha Romanoff radiated cool power and reserve, but Pepper detected a microbial slump in her shoulders; a slight displacement of the feet that suggested this was not entirely a courtesy call.

Natasha sighed. “I need your tenth floor.”

Pepper crinkled her nose in the mirror. “Congress that bad?”

“They wanted to talk about _Stuxnet,”_ Natasha said, grimacing.

“Oh gods, I am so sorry,” Pepper replied. She shook her head, sympathetic, then tucked some hair behind an ear. “Can they _get_ any more primitive?”

With a grace that made Pepper secretly want to cry, Natasha slid off her shoes and gathered them up with two fingers. “I’ll need the usual pair of boxing gloves,” she said.

Pepper gave a coy smile and turned to face her. “I have something better.”

 

\---

 

Sam knew he should really be going to Stark for this, not the local hardware store.

He knew that, despite Stark’s claims of, “I don’t do weapons anymore,” he would gladly fix Sam’s EXO-7 Falcon. Sam just didn’t want to think of the expenses…nor of Stark’s face when he told him that the person who broke his wings was the same person responsible for the death of Stark’s parents. Probably. Sam didn’t think he could take another sad face for a while.

So screw it all—literally; he would fix his damaged wing himself, even if it took him six months and a set of cheap DIY store supplies.

The most diverse customers, Sam thought, looking around, could often be found in a hardware store. You got your usual bros; carpenters with paint-speckled jeans and Timberlands beelining for the more specific tools with complicated names and numbers attached to them. Then you got your laymen or laywomen, usually looking for home appliances to build or modify. You got women in dresses and summer sandals, college kids looking for ways to make their low-budget lives a bit easier, and even your occasional handy geriatric.

So when Sam turned down aisle six (secures and fasteners) to see a boy crouched over the bolts slurping at a mango, he initially thought nothing of it. But if that wasn’t the juiciest mango Sam had seen on this side of DC, and the hardware looked in danger of getting some, ah, added flavor.

“Kid, you keep eating that you won’t need a screwdriver ‘cause those kingpins will stick together all on their own,” Sam said.

“Huh?” The kid looked up, clear juice on his chin. He was wearing a plaid shirt that looked several sizes too big for him over a pair of frayed jeans.

“You ain’t supposed to eat in a store,” Sam explained. The kid only shrugged, so Sam nodded to the hardware. “Building something?”

The kid swallowed and grinned. “A skateboard.”

“Once you build it, you gotta paint it, right?” Sam asked, casually flipping through the carabineers.

“Uh-huh. I’m gonna make it green, like the Hulk.”

“Oh you like the Hulk?”

The kid nodded. A drop of mango juice slid down his chin and plopped onto his collar. “He’s cool,” the kid said, “but a lot of people don’t like him. I think he just needs someone to talk to.”

“A lot of people need someone to talk to,” Sam replied. “That’s kind of my job, in a way.”

The kid’s face brightened. “Really? D’you think you could talk to the Hulk, Mister?”

Sam laughed. “I don’t know, kid. I have a friend who worked with him once, but when he’s not all—“ Sam bared his teeth and pretended to flex his muscles—“he’s actually pretty hard to find.”

“Oh,” the kid said. His smooth face furrowed and he took another bite of his mango. “Then maybe you could talk to my dad,” he said, mouth full.

Sam put the carabineer back on the rack. It was too small, and electric orange wasn’t really his color. “Your dad have problems?” he asked.

“Uh-huh. There were some government people? They put something in his head, I think.”

Sam, who had been reaching for another carabineer, paused. “You mean like brainwashing?” he said, slowly.

“I dunno. My aunt says they made him into a robot or something.”

“Kid, you know where your dad is now?”

The kid did a half-shrug, half head-shake thing. “I think he’s sad. Like the Hulk,” he answered. “I wanna see him, but he’s hard to find too. I’m staying with my aunt.”

“Well,” Sam said, “if your dad ever comes home, you give him a big hug first, then tell him to give ol’ Sam Wilson a call.”

“Okay,” the kid nodded. He pointed to the hardware on the wall with a sticky finger. “Are you building a skateboard too, Mister Wilson?”

Sam chuckled. “Nah, I’m building a flying machine. People can fly now, you know.”

Ace Peterson looked up at him and smiled. “I know,” he said.

 

\---

 

Natasha’s lips twisted into a smile for the first time that day. “Pepper. You shouldn’t have.”

“No, she really shouldn’t have,” Maria said, leaning over the ring rope. Her business suit was shed in favor of breezy cotton sweats and her hair was done up in a loose ponytail. “I’m supposed to have Stark’s White House Intel finished by noon.”

“He’ll live,” Pepper replied dryly. “You ladies have fun, now.”

Natasha slipped into the ring as the sounds of Pepper’s heels clacking on marble faded. “Muay Thai, boxing, judo, or aikido?” she asked.

“Let’s go with aikido,” Maria replied, stretching. “My beef with infantile bureaucrats has me craving something intelligent.”

Natasha smiled as they bowed to each other. “Me too,” she said.

Maria began with a knifehand strike to Natasha’s head, which Natasha ducked, rolled, and countered with a similar strike to the side of the neck.

“You know one of them asked me if I understood the English definition of _sabotage?”_ Natasha asked as Maria grabbed her wrist in a _katate-dori._

“You should have—“Maria twisted out of the way to avoid a blow to the solar plexus—“answered him in French,” she replied. _“Or in Russian.”_ She added, in Russian.

Natasha couldn’t help but grin. “Since when did you learn Russian?” she asked, blowing a strand of amber hair out of her face.

Maria grabbed Natasha by the shoulders and vaulted over her. “Since the Winter Soldier became a gaping national issue.”

Natasha remained silent. Bucky Barnes was a whole other can of worms she was not ready to even _touch,_ let alone try to open today.

The two sparred wordlessly for a while, simply enjoying the feelings of strike and release, and the sounds of their heartbeats. For the briefest of moments there was peace. They could forget about everything that had happened and just fight.

“How’s Stark paying you, by the way?” Natasha asked, some indefinable amount of time later.

“Decent,” Maria replied, blocking another knifehand strike. “Considering I’m CHRO. Though I heard he paid you even better as a bodyguard.”

Natasha chuckled, slightly out of breath. She went in for a rear chokehold, which seemed to hold Maria for a few seconds, but Maria ended up flipping her over forwards.

“Actually, Fury paid me,” she said, when she rose.

“Um, excuse me? As much as I love two perspiring and highly attractive women in my gym, I have to point out that I did in fact pay you,” Tony Stark said, walking into the room with a helical gear and a grease towel in his hand.

“Actually, if I recall, you spent it all on the champagne fountain for your birthday party,” Natasha responded. She tucked some hair behind an ear and released Maria from what would have been a rather effective _mune-dori._

“Oh, by all means—” Tony gestured to the ring with his gear—“please continue. My money’s on Romanoff, though.”

Maria and Natasha exchanged a look. “You know, Natasha,” Maria began, a little half-smile on her face, “I think it’s awfully rude of us to be using up this ring when Mister Stark has so openly expressed an interest in it.”

“I agree,” Natasha said. “Stark, why don’t you join us in a little martial arts? Maria and I have a _lot_ of pent-up feelings when it comes to dealing with the American government. Maybe you can help us…relieve our tension.” Beside her, Maria cracked her knuckles.

 _“Sir, giving your experience in hand-to-hand combat and how much you value your spleen, I would advise against this course of action,”_ JARVIS said from the ceiling speakers.

 

 

\---

 

There are currently one hundred twenty-eight dead men involved with the U.S. Government.

Nicholas Fury, supposedly buried in Washington DC, tombstone patterned by the shadows of a slightly lopsided oak tree.

Phillip Coulson, likewise. Stabbed through the left ventricle.

Mister Koenig. If one brother dies, another takes his place.

Natalia Romanova, who never existed on paper.

Steven Rogers, died at twenty-six to a faulty Ho 229 engine.

Michael Peterson, burned alive.

“Mary Sue Poots,” or Skye, a Level 1 S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with two slugs lodged in her intestines.

There are others too: Richard Lumley, Dr. J. Streiten, Dr. Goodman. All MIA.

“Off the grid” (as they used to say at S.H.I.E.L.D.), and still operating the country from a place no one speaks of; the shapes that cast the shadows over empty biers, the soft breaths that blow on the sparks of structure.

There are one hundred twenty-eight dead men running the country, and their hearts beat to serve and protect at all costs.

And of course, let’s not forget James “Bucky” Barnes.

 

\---

  

Entwining her fingers together above her head, Audrey stretched her arms to get the blood flowing. It was a morning like any other, if a bit cloudy, but she welcomed it. It was always easier for her to practice when the rain fell (even if the humidity made her cello overly temperamental).

After tuning she did her scales, sixths, octaves, and thirds, taking a good hour to warm up with them. She preferred the Piatti Caprices over Duport, Feuillard, or Popper etudes, but Audrey decided to skip No. 2 for today. The Symphony was opening their spring program with _Don Juan,_ and that section at letter R—well, the whole piece, really—was one of those things you always needed to have in your fingers.

In all honesty, Audrey found the act of truly _enjoying_ this particular piece more difficult than the actual passagework. She preferred other composers over Strauss, and _Don Juan_ was overplayed to the point where you weren’t even surprised anymore to hear violinists practicing the opening as fast as he or she could play it. It was a young person’s piece, and she was young, but today Audrey felt incredibly old.

She could practice the notes until she was blue in the face and her fingers blistered, and of course it would be flawless. But…well. You could play notes until the end of time, she knew, and never play _music._

Audrey leaned back in her chair and let the scroll of the cello bump gently against her collarbone. Thunder belched outside. By the time rehearsal started this afternoon, it would be raining. Audrey sighed.

Her fingers absently plucked her open A, as they often did when her focus drifted elsewhere. She thought about Marcus Daniels and his washboard, zombie-face and shuddered. She thought of those young S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, looking both younger and so much older than her at the same time. She thought of Phil, sweet Phil, ordering poached salmon at the Richmond and always letting her try the first bite.

It was a memory that usually comforted Audrey and gave her spirit, but today something felt wrong about it.

She had always played for herself, and then she had always played for Phil. And then Phil had—had _died,_ and Audrey—

The cello almost slipped from her chest as the realization hit her. She had been playing for a dead man for two years. No wonder her music had no life in it.

With slightly trembling fingers, Audrey sat up and tightened her bow a little bit. She drew a long, deep breath in through her nose and closed her eyes. Outside, thunder grumbled again.

She began _Don Juan_ again, from the top, hearing the orchestra around her playing, tumescent with sun and energy. At the same time, something inside her that had been holding on to Phil all this time started to loosen its sticky, leaden grip. Audrey focused on the harmonies, the utter warmth and color of E major. She was finally letting Phil go, and as that grip on him became weaker and weaker, Audrey found she was not afraid.

There was no fear.

Only music.

 

\---

 

Ghosts. Smoke in the wind. Teaweed on the surface of the pond. Bucky Barnes wakes up panting, retching, tangled in an old musty blanket that might have been white around the time Nixon had been president.

_Who?_

He smears greasy sweat into his hair; licks dry, arid lips. He has another headache.

He’d dreamt about the Mission again.

_Кто?_

With his right arm he throws the blanket aside, and with the left he smashes anything he can reach, needing to tear, to slash, to crumble the leftover rime ice coating the throbbing benthos of his consciousness. He has no purpose now but his malefic dreams, and worse…he’s—he’s _feeling_ things. He was never supposed to _feel._

Somewhere, a cat cries out.

Bucky’s hand crunches around something papery, and he looks down. It’s a note.

 _Bucky,_ it reads.

_Wer?_

_He’s looking,_ is all it says. It’s in Russian. He thinks.

The Mission?

Bucky Barnes stuffs the note into his pocket and watches the moon. He breathes heavily, trying to expel the foisted programming wending through his system, wondering if it will snow. He hopes not.

There is someone he has to see, but it’s not time. He’s not ready.

_Cooking knӧdel over a stove, a plastic inhaler, hair like ripe corn_

Maybe, just maybe if he finds that person, he’ll pull through.

 

\---

 

To a point, Steve Rogers considered himself a fairly tolerant person. Sure, things could get hairy, but he had learned to put himself above his frustrations. The sandbags helped. Most of the time.

He thought he was handling his meat-locker time-jump pretty well, all things considering. He could tolerate the vocabulary, though he missed those somewhat comforting words and expressions (like joking with Bucky about “passing the buck”) that had fallen into desuetude. He could put up with guys wearing their pants somewhere around their knees and women wearing practically no pants at all. He could handle rap and hip-hop, bad cinema, and paper towels costing four bucks a roll at Walmart.

He could handle warmongering extraterrestrials laying waste to downtown New York (just substitute aliens in for Nazis and it wasn’t too different), and he thought he could endure Tony Stark’s bumptious twaddle to some extent if he took it in extremely small doses.

He could take Peggy not recognizing him some days, and he supposed he was okay with her great niece stationing herself down the hall as his not-so-undercover neighbor. He could even handle S.H.I.E.L.D.’s _spectacular_ fail in espionage. But then _Bucky_ happened, and that was really, really pushing it.

But strangely, for Steve, that was not the last straw.

The last straw, he thought, was Phil Coulson sitting on his couch, reading a worn copy of George Orwell’s _1984_ under the lamplight like everything was right with the world.

Phil put down his book and gave Steve an apologetic smile. “I thought it would be easier if I came in person,” he said.

Standing there looking like he had a bad case of brain-freeze was starting to get old, so Steve set down his bag of groceries and shut the door. He held up his key. “I don’t know why I even bother with this,” he said. “At least Fury didn’t use up the electric bill.”

“Didn’t want to scare you.”

“Because the last time someone broke into my apartment, things ended so well,” Steve muttered. Something flipped over low in his stomach, and he realized then that he was, in that moment, furious. “I really shouldn’t be surprised by now.”

Phil leaned back on the couch, and the lamplight cast half of his face into a dark brown shadow. “I’ve been in this business a long time, Mister Rogers,” he said. “And I still find that things are always surprising me.”

“So what’s your deal; did you take a heart-stopping tonic too?” Steve asked, heading toward the fridge with his perishables.

Phil looked thoughtful. “No, I actually died.” Steve raised an eyebrow around a bag of frozen peas.

“I went—“Phil’s gaze went blank for a moment, and his brow creased. “On vacation,” he finished. “Tahiti. Gotta say, wasn’t as magical as they made it out to be.”

Steve slammed the door to the freezer shut. It sounded loud and awkward in the tiny apartment. Running a hand through his hair, he said, “You know, I don’t even want to know.” He pursed his lips for a moment, then went on, “If you guys can cover up a death so well, how many more people are alive that I don’t know about? Are the Howling Commandos packed away in an ice locker? What about Erskine? What, is, is he plugged into a MacBook somewhere?”

“I can understand your distress, Mister Rogers—“

“—No, I don’t think you understand,” Steve cut him off, voice grave. His eyes fell to Phil’s book. _“1984_ is classic literature there, but you know what I’ve been reading these past three weeks? HYDRA’s file on James Barnes.” Phil winced noticeably.

Steve shook his head. “So yeah, your timing really…”

“Blows?”

“I was going to put it more old-fashioned,” Steve said, and scratched wearily behind an ear. It was a spot he always rubbed when he was tired—emotionally, of course, since his fatigability was almost nonexistent. He blew out his breath in a sigh. “Jeezus. It’s been two years, Coulson. You could have told us.”

Phil crossed his legs. “If it makes you feel any better, I think we can help you locate Mister Barnes,” he offered.

Steve dropped a mesh bag of apples onto the countertop and folded his empty grocery bag into a neat square. “There’s no point in me asking how, right?”

“Not right now, no,” Phil said. “But we’re in a position to do some good, and we’ll get there.”

Steve frowned. “And when you say ‘we’ I’m assuming…”

“S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Phil replied, smiling.

Steve felt the brain-freeze expression coming back, and fought it. His face was utterly blank. “S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he repeated.

“Who do you think’s been paying your expenses for the past month?”

“I assumed those checks from ‘Mr. D. Shincracker’ were Fury’s way of poking fun now that he’s undercover,” Steve said dryly.

Phil gave a laugh. “Actually, that was me. But I can see why you’d think that. With death comes a peculiar sense of humor.”

Steve stared at Phil, who smiled pleasantly back. Phil looked…good. A little smaller and thinner than Steve remembered from the Helicarrier, but otherwise healthy. The crow’s feet circling his eyes were deeper, but they also brought out his smile.

Steve’s anger finally cracked, and he let out a snort. “So where’s the money coming from?”

Phil shrugged. “There’s always money. Anyway,” he leaned forward, steepling his fingers over his knees, “I’m here for a favor. I don’t like the word ‘recruitment,’ but I can’t think of anything better at the moment.”

Steve walked through the kitchen archway and back into the living room, silent.

“As you know, S.H.I.E.L.D. suffered somewhat of an…intelligence breach,” Phil said. “Cleaning up the detritus could take a bit of time. However, our country still needs protection, and I plan on building things back up with some, ah, new policies.”

“What did you have in mind, Coulson?” Steve asked.

Phil’s smile widened. “How would you like to be a part of something bigger, Mister Rogers?”

 

\---

 

  _Epilogue_

_1946_

 

“And here, we have a crab in its natural aquatic habitat.”

“Oh for god’s sake Stark, are you still playing with that blasted thing?”

From his seat on the outdoor pool patio, Howard adjusted his motion picture camera so it was facing him and grinned into the lens. “This is the future, Colonel,” he said.

“You say as you utter an outdated ranking,” Phillips grumbled around his iced lemonade. He pulled at his collar irritably, overdressed under the balmy August sun. “It’s Agent now. Of an organization, might I add, whose name I can’t even goddamn remember.”

Howard chuckled. “That’s the beauty of it,” he replied, tapping the camera. “With all this on record, you won’t have to remember anything.” He raised his eyebrows over the lens. “You look a little hot there, Agent Phillips. Why don’t you take a dip in the pool with Peggy?”

Phillips set down his lemonade and snorted like a horse. “Not only do I see a complete lack of sense in filming the startup of a _secret_ intelligence organization,” he began, “but you’re not even getting anything remotely germane to its formation!”

“Hey,” Howard frowned, “I think it’s important to document everything. Someone might need this information someday. Smile, Agent Carter!”

Peggy, wearing a two-piece, walked over and rubbed a towel through her dripping hair. “Please tell me that’s not recording, Stark,” she said.

“Ah, well, about that…”

“Because if it is I’m going to have to make you eat that roll of film.” Peggy’s eyes were steely, but the corners of her mouth twitched so slightly the untrained eye was apt to miss it.

“I’m creating the perfect startup kit!” Howard protested, uncrossing his legs and reaching for his drink. “What if something happens and we have to start over?”

“Let’s just get started once,” Phillips said.

“Roger that,” Howard replied. “I’ve already filmed our nascent steps to this S.H.I.E.L.D. project, and now I think it’s time to catalogue some information about its founding members.”

Peggy twisted a dark skein of hair over her shoulder. “Let’s pray next time you find me in something more befitting than a bikini.” she said.

Howard took a swig of his martini. “Well I for one think it’s adorable that your swimsuit is red, white, and blue.”

 

 

  _2014_

 

The little black cube Fury had given him was certainly more intriguing on the inside. It folded out to reveal several little compartments, for one thing. Coulson had started with the first object he’d seen: a set of coordinates that had led them to the Playground.

Now, back in his new office (with actual windows), he opened the cube again. What caught his eye this time was the one thing that stood out simply because its technology _didn’t_ look intimidating, alien, or ambiguous. With careful fingers, Coulson reached in and took out a few rolls of capped film from inside the cube, holding them up to the light.

“Huh,” he said.

 

 

_Not dead, not undesirous yet,_

_Still sentient, still unsatisfied,_

_We'll ride the air, and shine, and flit,_

_Around the places where we died,_

 

_And dance as dust before the sun,_

_And light of foot, and unconfined,_

_Hurry from road to road, and run_

_About the errands of the wind._

 

Rupert Brooke, 1908-11

 

**Author's Note:**

> To "buy the farm" was 1940s military slang for kicking the bucket, which I found oddly appropriate for the title of this work.


End file.
